


Crumbling

by thesearchforbluejello



Series: Cassian Appreciation Week [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angst, Cassian Appreciation Week, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, this is like the Bed Sharing redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 09:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15434436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesearchforbluejello/pseuds/thesearchforbluejello
Summary: Cassian struggles with the weight of impassivity.





	Crumbling

**Author's Note:**

> This fits into my rebelcaptain week series after "In the Space Between." The prompt was "mask." Un-beta'ed, hastily proofread. Let me know if you find any errors!

They're waiting for him in the hangar bay.

He assumes they must know enough about how totally _fucked_ the mission ended up, even if they don't know the details, because there's no other reason they'd all be here. 

Baze and Chirrut are sitting on a crate, watching him silently. Bodhi is beside them, rocking from heel to toe, toe to heel, expending nervous energy in a steady rhythym. K is next to him, standing taller, more stiffly than he does when at rest. And Jyn-- Jyn is in front of them, standing at an angle that places her directly in the path he needs to take to return to his quarters.

It worries him, concerns him, frightens him that she may know him that well already.

He stops before her, more than an arms length away, the cold air of Echo Base curling and breathing between them. He doesn't meet her eyes.

"We're glad you're okay," she says, a little stiffly, and he knows from her awkwardness that she had decided what to say to him before he'd even arrived.

"Thank you," he says, because it's what's expected.

She looks at him a little more sharply, a little more intensely, and he wants to peel away his skin until there's nothing left for her to see.

"We're headed to the mess if you want to join," Bodhi says.

"I'm very tired," he says, and he walks past them without a farewell.

***

If he's honest with himself, he's been expecting her for a while. He's surprised she even knocks first, though, before keying in the code for his door and slipping inside when he doesn't answer.

She sits on the edge of his bed, an arm's length from where he's curled. He doesn't look at her, but he knows she's there by the shift of the mattress, her steady breaths.

His face is impassive, he knows, a protective mask. He wants to claw it off, to strip it away until he can breathe.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, but the word comes out all wrong.

"Okay," she says, and shifts so she's lying next to him, elbows touching his forearms, knees against his shins.

He wants to scream, because this isn't what he _should_ want, but it is what he wants, so desperately it aches in his chest, in his throat. Three weeks ago he woke up with her in his bed, and if there was ever a chance of freeing himself from her pull, sinking, sinking into her gravity, it evaporated when he saw her sleeping, head tucked beneath his chin, an arm around his waist, looking so relaxed and so, so calm. He'd left for his next mission just a few days later and slept in an empty bunk.

He can't look at her now. He doesn't want her to see that mask, not here, not when he can feel her breath against his cheek.

He shuts his eyes tight and tries to pretend she's not there.

"I don't know what happened," she says, softly, slowly, like she's afraid she'll startle him. She pauses then and he can almost see her biting her lip, the tell that gives away her anxiety. Normally it would drive him mad, and sometimes he thinks she does it because she's figured that out despite his best efforts to hide it. But right now he knows it's because she's nervous, because she's struggling to shape her words into something that resembles her thoughts instead of letting them burgeon uninhibited. 

She's silent for a moment more and then he hears the soft sound of her lips unsealing as she takes a breath to speak. "But-- I know that, whatever happened, you did the best you could. You always do."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do. I know you. Maybe not for very long, but..." She doesn't continue, but he understands. It seems like she knows him better than he knows himself sometimes. She may not be able to see through his mask, not completely, but it's defended him for two decades now. It would be startling enough if she could, but to him it's even more startling that she can understand the reason behind it without needing to.

He feels the mattress shift as she moves, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his face. 

He feels his lips twitch, tightening, then his nostrils, then his brow, and suddenly his mask is shattering, crumbling at her simple touch.

"They didn't deserve to die," he whispers.

"Few do," she says, smoothing a thumb over the creases held tight in his brow by grief. He just nods because he can't speak. He chances a look at her and her face is calm, lips pressed together, eyes gentle and focused only on him. There's a knot in his throat that feels like a hand closed around his neck.

He's not sure which of them moves towards the other, but they end up tangled together, his chest against her side, his face pressed into her collarbone. His fists are knotted in her shirt, so tightly they cramp. Her legs are over his thigh, keeping him close, her heels behind his bent knees. One of her hands is on the back of his neck, the other running through his hair, gentle strokes untangling the taught lines of his stress.

He tries to match his breathing with hers, slow and steady, the rhythm of her pulse an anchor to himself.

He loses time as he lays there, letting each pass of her hand wear a little more of his pain away.

Exhaustion rises, unwelcomed, in its place, stealing over him like a blanket that's just a little too heavy. He sighs, and his breath on her skin makes her shiver. He pulls away from her, just barely, but her grip on him tightens. "It's okay," she says. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He nods, relaxing against her again.

In the morning, he'll wake up when she's still sleeping. He'll watch her, breathing slowly, lips parted slightly, all of the tension and intensity that he usually sees in her absent. He'll draw a lock of her hair between his fingers, smoothing the strands in the dim light.

She'll wake to see him looking at her and her own mask will fall into place, guarded, uncertain. 

He'll be groggy, still exhausted, and he won't know what to say. 

She'll look away and he'll reach out, suddenly, pulling her towards him with a hand on the back of her neck, meeting her halfway with a kiss that's only mostly chaste.

She'll smile, tracing his cheekbones with her thumbs, and he'll believe again that maybe he'll be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Songs for today are: Assassin by John Mayer and An Act of Kindness by Bastille.


End file.
